Guilty by Desire

I’ve tried to forget him. It has been over six months, yet he remains branded into my memory. I can still vividly recall the heat of his touch, his hands roaming over my body, and the claiming glide of his mouth tracing every inch of my skin. He gave me the most earth-shattering orgasm of my life, whispering dark, filthy promises that sent me completely over the edge. I can still feel the desperate coil of tension in my stomach from the way he edged me, holding me back from my release until I begged. He is the kind of memory that haunts you—a beautiful, agonizing ghost. But my night with him wasn't just about the s*x. It was the reckless abandon. I got my first tattoo with him. The small butterfly inked onto my hand hadn't hurt nearly as much as I expected, though the alcohol swimming in my veins probably helped. More importantly, it was the first time in years I had genuinely laughed. It was the first time I felt alive without having to force it. The euphoric high didn't last. Reality came crashing down the moment the sun rose. I had a husband to go home to, and a suffocating blanket of guilt waiting to smother me. I had crafted a flawless lie about the tattoo and why I was out all night. Miraculously, Oliver believed it. Six months later, he still has no idea. I haven't told my husband that I had the greatest night of my life with a stranger. I haven't confessed that I can't get that Greek god out of my head. Alessandro Sinclair is just a memory, I reminded myself firmly. A memory that refuses to fade. A gentle knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. I blinked, looking up from my computer screen to see my assistant, Joseline. With her light brown hair, dark ocean eyes, and crisp purple pencil skirt, she looked perfectly put together. "Your 6:00 is here, Mrs. Escarra." "Send her in." Joseline nodded and vanished into the reception area. I pulled Miranda’s file from my desk drawer, organizing the settlement papers she needed to sign, and forced my mind back to the law. "Mrs. Escarra," Miranda greeted with a tight smile. She wore a coffee-brown maxi dress that hugged her slim figure, but her eyes carried the heavy exhaustion of a scorned woman. "Hi, Miranda. Please, take a seat." I set her file down and matched her posture. "How has your day been?" "Good. Yours?" "Great," I lied smoothly, offering a professional smile as she set her purse on the adjacent chair. "Now, about your case. I highly doubt we’ll be able to secure the astronomical amount you’re hoping for in this divorce. Your husband has agreed to settle. He's offering the house, the cars, and half a million dollars. The judge will most likely see this as more than generous." Miranda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning forward. Her voice hardened. "He cheated on me, Athena. Brandon got his mistress pregnant while we were trying for a child. I want to leave him completely broke. I’m not settling until I bleed him dry." Her words felt like a physical strike. I swallowed hard, suppressing the sharp spike of hypocrisy in my chest, and slid the papers back into the folder. "I understand. Believe me, I do," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "But the judge will not care that he broke your marriage vows. The court we're dealing with just wants to clear the docket. If we drag this to trial, you’ll be spending more in legal fees than you'll get in return." I folded my hands on the desk, giving her a moment to process the bitter reality of the legal system. "Will you still fight for it if I refuse to settle?" she asked, her chin lifting defiantly. Biting back a sigh, I nodded. "If you want to go to trial to get what you're owed, I will fight for you." We spent the next hour combing through the ugly details of Brandon’s affair and the legal strategy moving forward. When we finally wrapped up, Miranda stood and grabbed her purse. "Thank you again. See you Wednesday." "Of course. See you Wednesday." I watched her leave, the heavy irony of the situation settling over me like a dark cloud. I packed Miranda's files into my briefcase, bade Joseline a good night, and made my way down to the parking garage. Once inside the quiet sanctuary of my car, I kicked off my heels and tossed them onto the passenger seat. As I gripped the steering wheel, the little butterfly tattoo on my hand caught the streetlights. A small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips. You're married, Athena. Get yourself under control. I took a deep, shuddering breath and forced the image of Alessandro out of my head. I needed to think about my husband. When I pulled into our driveway, Oliver’s car was already there. I walked inside barefoot, dumping my bags on the sofa. Oliver looked up from the kitchen counter and smiled, walking over with a glass of water for me. "How was your day, baby?" "Tiring, as usual," I said, following him into the kitchen. "Miranda decided to take the hard route with her divorce. It’s going to trial." He placed a plate of tacos on the counter. "I'm sorry you're going to be stuck in court for the next few days." He sat beside me at the table, his energy suddenly shifting into something eager and triumphant. "My day, however, was amazing. We just partnered with the Jameson-Brown firm. We’re finally close to being more powerful than the Sinclairs." I froze. The food in my mouth turned to ash. Sinclair. I forced myself to swallow, offering a tight, manufactured smile. I could feel him staring at the side of my face, but I absolutely refused to meet his eyes, terrified he would see the panic in mine. "I think we should celebrate," Oliver murmured. He pushed his untouched plate away and leaned in, pressing a wet kiss to my cheek. His hand slid high up my thigh, his lips trailing down my neck. "I haven't finished eating yet," I choked out with a nervous chuckle. He ignored me, his mouth moving along my jawline. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting a losing battle against the memory of a different pair of hands. A different mouth. "Let me finish eating, and I'll meet you upstairs," I said, pulling back to give him a quick, placating kiss and a forced wink. He beamed, taking the bait, and headed up the stairs. The second he was out of sight, I let out a massive, trembling breath. I had actively avoided intimacy with Oliver since the affair. The guilt was suffocating, and every time I tried to confess the truth, the words died in my throat, replaced by a cowardly 'I love you.' After mechanically finishing my meal and washing my plate, I stood at the bottom of the staircase, staring up into the dark. I prayed he had fallen asleep. No such luck. When I stepped into the bedroom, he was sitting up, scrolling through his phone. He tossed it onto the nightstand, walking over to pull my shirt over my head before spinning me around to blindly unzip my skirt. We fell into bed, our bodies moving in a familiar, uninspired rhythm. It was supposed to be slow, intimate s*x, but it was over before it even began. Three minutes. That was all it took for him to finish. He rolled off me immediately, turning his back to the center of the bed. "I love you," I whispered, shifting closer, craving just a fraction of warmth to chase away the cold emptiness settling in my chest. "I love you too, but I'm not in the mood for cuddling tonight," he muttered, shrugging his shoulder to shake off my touch. "Oh." That was all I could manage. I turned away, facing my own side of the dark room. I hated this. I hated how he could bury himself inside me and then discard me a second later without a second thought. But I had no right to feel hurt. I was the cheater. I had no right to be upset about his coldness when my mind was entirely consumed by another man. I pulled the blankets tighter around myself, staring at the butterfly tattoo in the shadows. This guilt was going to eat me alive.